Poem of the Week: Autumn’s Here!

Autumn’s Here!
September 9, 2017

Sound the bells, my friend.
Summer’s come to an end.
Autumn’s here,
And time is near
To see what’s ‘round the bend.

A new year of school’s begun
For learners both old and young.
So much they’ve to learn.
Hopefully, they shan’t burn
Out ‘fore the school year’s done.

A new season’s begun for TV
With so many programs to see
With brand new seasons
For this or that reason
As well as shows yet to be.

So many new sights to see, too,
At festivals and markets near you
That not summer nor spring
Could hope to bring,
But when Autumn falls…sacrebleu!

Pumpkins, gourds, squashes…oh, my!
So many treats for the eye
In addition to leaves
Drifting down as they please,
Lest the wind blows them ‘cross the sky.

Let’s not forget, either, the food
To put our taste buds in the mood:
Apples, cinnamon, spice,
Carmel corn—it’s all nice,
For as I eat it, how can I brood?

Thing is, too, in a matter of weeks,
The one day meant for spirits and freaks
And monsters of all kinds
Is bound to unwind
As Halloween time once more peeks

‘Round the bend to greet us with a “Boo!”
And sends us searching for new
Costumes to wear
And treats to bear
To make youngsters go “Ah!” and “Ooh!”

A month or so later, Thanksgiving:
A true celebration of living—
Parades, football, feasts,
And not to say the least,
Family there to share in the giving.

So many are autumn’s joys
For all men, women, girls, and boys,
Should they but slow down
And travel ‘round town
To drink them all in and enjoy.

Alas, though, so wrapped up are most
Folks who claim to not boast
Any time to partake
In these things in the wake
Of the season ‘fore it becomes a ghost.

It really is a shame,
For according to the season’s game,
Autumn comes once a year
For but three months, dear,
‘Fore it fades away again. How lame!

Well, I sure know for a fact
That when autumn comes, I don’t slack
In taking in its gifts
In hopes that they lift
Me out of my mood when it’s black,

For if annual it must be,
Then why cheat myself of such beauty?
I could never forgive
Myself, should I live
To deny such a gift to me,

Which is why each year during this time,
I pause to take in the sublime
And escape from my hive
And thank God I’m alive,
Even if it’s but for a short time.

Such is how I feel when autumn comes
‘Til my eyes, ears, and tongue go numb.
It’s an annual thing,
So let the good times ring
‘Til the season’s at long last done.

P.S.: The pic used above comes courtesy of CanadianMusicHallofFame.ca. The attached poem, however, is the author’s own.

*****

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First Poem of Christmas 2016: What Christmas Means

What Christmas Means
November 26, 2016

C
ranberries, turkey, and stuffing on the table,
Helping out the homeless, the ill, and the disabled,
Rings and streams of evergreen decking every hall,
Ink and paper wishing joy and comfort to one and all,
Stockings, bows, and twinkling lights hung with care,
Tunes of merry tidings playing everywhere,
Mending broken hearts, even if just for the season,
Aunts, uncles, and grandfolks over for one special reason,
Snow upon the ground making things crisp and serene…

All these things and more to me are what Christmas means.

*****

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Poem of the Week: Snow, Snow, Snow

Snow, Snow, Snow
February 22, 2014

Snow, snow, snow…why don’t you just go?
These past few months, you’ve brought me naught but woe
As I’ve marched through you to and fro
Upon chasing my dogs through you so.

Deep like a river, you come up to my knees,
And even with my lungs, I start to wheeze.
I’m quite surprised, too, that I’ve yet to freeze
As my doggone dogs race as they please

O’er mounds of you, all covered with ice,
Frozen so solid that you make nice
Little platforms, making me pay the price
As my dogs jump the fence and cross your ice

To the neighbor’s fence to meet her mutts,
Yelping and screaming, each a rowdy putz.
Meanwhile, I’m slipping and sinking like a klutz
To keep up with my maniacal mutts!

Oh, how I yearn, then, for it to be spring—
To see the trees bloom and hear the birds sing,
For by then, you’ll at long last feel the sting
Of the sun as it melts you into a spring,

Reducing you to naught but a memory—
A watery mess of what you’d used to be.
Only then will I truly be free
From you until the next trimesters three,

Where the cycle will surely start again,
And I’ll be yearning for way back when—
Just like I am now, but until then,
Thanks for naught but spoiling my moment of Zen.

*****

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